Chapter 16

Monday, I started my weekday ritual feeling too good for it to be legal. I made sure I told a beaming Molly that it was all her fault as I sat down to breakfast.

After I left Molly’s, I dropped my laundry off with Clem and climbed up in his chair for my morning shave. As he was lathering up my face, I got to thinking about confirmed bachelor Clem and my sweet little landlady. Both of them were fine people and they had a lot in common. I had to wonder how they might take to each other if I played a little match-making.

From Clem’s I hustled to the Toro to check on Pen. Pen seemed much better that morning. He said the salicylic acid powder (an early form of aspirin) the Doc gave him had eased his headache away, although it made him sick to his stomach. I told Pen I had a small errand to run and that I’d be back within the hour, and headed off to the bootmaker’s shop.

I arrived at the small store front shop of the bootmaker about ten before ten. The bootmaker was a man in his forties by the look of him, medium height, and muscular. From the first few words we shared, I knew he was honest and straightforward. Anna arrived about five minutes after I did. It was funny watching the man’s face light up when Anna came through the door. I guess Anna had indeed retired her widow’s weeds, because she was wearing a dark blue dress that left no questions about what sex she was. Her hair was in a loose French braid.

Anna made introductions and I almost fell over when she told Joaquin I was like a son to her. Of course, her saying that made Joaquin liked me all the better. As Anna sat on a stool looking gorgeous and flirty, I told and demonstrated to Joaquin what I had in mind for a gun belt. My idea of a two gun rig with cartridge loops wasn’t that radical, but my thoughts about the design of the holsters were new to him. I showed him a drawing I had made and he understood what I was trying for immediately. I wanted the holsters as stiff as he could make them, so I could pull my pistol faster, and I wanted the trigger guard exposed for the same reason.

We agreed on a two and a half inch wide belt with the holsters attached in the Mexican way, which meant the holsters had loops at the back and slipped onto the belt. I told him the rig needed to be black, but he should use his own good judgment to decorate it. I didn’t know at the time that Anna already had the decorating ideas for him.

I was back at the saloon by quarter to eleven and started organizing the joint for the week. Mondays were the day we received both beer and whiskey deliveries from Pen’s supplier. Pen had a great working relationship with the distributor and received preferential treatment.

Mondays were also when Pen usually met with his staff to ensure everyone was available and ready for the coming week. I met with the dancers first as they all trouped downstairs at noon. Thank goodness there were no problems on my first turn holding the meeting. Of course they all knew about Pen’s condition, and had already worked out among themselves how to help take care of him. All of the women thought highly of Pen because of the respect he showed them. I tried to give them that same respect.

The barmen, floor man and guard came in next. It was payday for them. Pen did not pay anyone on Friday or Saturday, so they couldn’t get drunk and not show up for work either night. I told the men to be extra alert that night, and on the lookout for George Howard or any of his men. I made sure the barmen had weapons available under their bars, and told the armed guard that I wanted him on his feet, patrolling the balcony all evening.

The last group who came in for payday was the Los Hombres Feliz (The Happy Men), the four piece mariachi band that played at the dance hall. Los Hombres were a great bunch of guys, not to mention first class musicians. While I was paying them, I had the thought of trying my hand at introducing some twentieth century music to Old El Paso. One song was my new version of El Paso; and, because the Hombres had a trumpet player, one was Ring of Fire; the last was Cielito Lindo (Pretty Cielito). Even Anglos know that one: it goes aay, yii, yi, yiiii...

For two dollars, the boys stayed with me for an hour and let me practice with them. They were excited as hell about all three songs, because they fit into the mariachi repertoire of songs about passion and love. As a bonus, it turns out that with a little professional accompaniment, Ty Ringo McGuinn had a pretty decent, slightly baritone, singing voice. I mean there was no danger of superstardom on the horizon, but still, my Johnny Cash imitation on ‘Ring of Fire’, even impressed the Happy Hombres.

The Hombres felt comfortable enough with Cielito Lindo to want to try it out that night. Hell, they even said that if I was brave enough, I could sing Ring of Fire. El Paso was going to take some work, though, because I had lyrics in both English and Spanish and the song required a lot of finger picking on the guitar.

I went back to Molly’s for just long enough to eat supper, then I hustled right back to the Toro. I felt a huge responsibility not to let Pen down, even though I was only doing what I normally did anyway. Weird, huh?

So anyway, I worked my ass off for the next two days. On Wednesday, just when I thought I might have a handle on things, I received another note from the Clerk of the District Court. As directed, I marched my ass down to the jail and reported to Sheriff Faulkner. Faulkner started off the conversation this time on a much less suspicious note.

“I was right sorry to hear about your boss, Counselor, he’s a good man and runs an honest saloon.”

I thanked him and told him Pen was on the mend. I couldn’t help getting in a dig about the men who beat him going free.

When I mentioned George Howard’s thugs, his jaw tightened.

“I enforce the law McGuinn, I can’t enforce common sense. I can’t do a damned thing about it when your boss is stupid enough to jump two roughnecks that were twice as big as him. But if it’s any consolation to you, your new client had better luck than Mister Smythe.”

At my inquisitive look, Faulkner explained that my client, one Carlos Trujillo, had been involved in an altercation with the same two men that beat down Pen. Mister Trujillo, however, had pulled a knife and showed great skill with it as he carved some impressive pictographs on the hides of the two cowboys. The incident had taken place at Cowboy Heaven, the most notorious saloon in El Paso. It was rumored that Cowboy Heaven was such a bad place that they checked you for guns at the door, if you didn’t have one, they gave one to you!

“There won’t be any help from me on this one McGuinn. The District Attorney is after blood. Your boy in there cut them cowboys up pretty bad. They’ll be scarred for life most likely.”

I nodded, went through the ritual of handing him my Colt, and eased on back to cell number two to visit my client.

Carlos Trujillo was a man of medium height and weight, with a full black mustache that covered much of his lower face. He had a hawk-like nose and piercing black eyes. Yet, for all his ferocious appearance, he was a surprisingly soft spoken man. We had a brief conversation centering on the reason for the altercation at Cowboy Heaven. I hid my surprise that it wasn’t over whiskey, women or gambling. Instead, it was over salt.

The Trujillos were sheep ranchers, with a flock of about five hundred head. Last week, as he had once a year for as long as he remembered, he and his father had headed up to the salt flats to cut some salt licks for their flock. They were stopped by a band of armed men who accused them of trespassing on private land. To make their point, the men had roughed up Carlos and his father and shot one of their sheep dogs.

Carlos had come to El Paso trying to purchase the salt licks their stock needed and saw the two cowboys entering Cowboy Heaven. Yes, he had attacked the two men in the saloon, and furthermore, he had no remorse for doing it.

I spent a few more minutes with Carlos and then headed over to see the DA. The District Attorney’s name was Percival Davenport, and he was Charles Howard’s hand picked man. Davenport let me cool my heels in his outer office for over half an hour before granting me a few minutes of his time. I didn’t waste anymore of either of our time as I cut to the chase.